Chapter 22 - Stella
Stella
Iam not sure what time it is, but the sun is peeking through my curtains, so I know it’s at least midmorning.
Fuck, my head is throbbing. Why did I drink so goddamn much?
I slowly roll so I am on my back, staring up at my ceiling fan, the lazy whir of the blades making the room tilt in circles. Bad idea.
I run to the bathroom and violently hurl up the lack of contents in my stomach, acid burning my throat, ears ringing with every heave.
I lay my head on the cold tile floor. My cheek sticks against it, my body damp with sweat, my head pounding, and my chest aching like it might cave in.
After a few minutes on the floor, the smell of bacon creeps in—greasy, sharp, almost too much for my stomach.
I carefully pick myself up off the floor.
The sink water is icy against my face, and mint stings my tongue as I brush my teeth. Slowly, I feel human enough to move.
My feet drag against the plush carpet as I force myself into the kitchen.
If Ansel is nice enough to cook me breakfast after the pity party I threw myself last night, the least I can do is be nice and face her this morning.
I round the corner and stop. The first thing I notice is a pastel pink motorcycle helmet—soft, almost candy-colored—with ridiculous little ears perched on the counter.
A riding jacket and gloves lie beside it, casual, like they belong here.
My eyes follow the line of gear and land on Donovan, of all people, standing at the stove. Bacon crackles in the pan. Eggs hiss. And he’s wearing my pastel purple apron, the one that reads Seasoned with love and maybe a dash of arsenic—a joke gift from Ansel last Christmas.
Donovan turns around, spatula in hand, and just stares.
I drag my fingers through my hair, suddenly too aware of the tangles, the stale tequila sweat clinging to my skin. His expression twists—disgust, disbelief. Do I really look that bad? Or is this the moment he finally sees me clearly, stripped down, unworthy?
He spins on his toes too fast, like he can’t stand the thought, flicks the stove off, and slides the pan away.
The distance between us vanishes in a handful of strides, and then I’m caught.
His arms close around me, heat and steadiness wrapping tighter than I expect.
My fingers twist into his shirt, desperate, like he’ll disappear if I loosen my grip.
The fabric smells like him—clean, familiar, and grounding.
My chest aches. He presses a kiss into my hair, breath lingering against my scalp, and pulls me even closer.
His head finds my shoulder, like he’s the one searching for safety.
For a second, I can’t tell who’s holding on to whom.
“Stella, baby… I am so fucking sorry.” His voice cracks, unashamed, breaking open before me.
“I apologize forever for letting you think—even for a second—that I could be the kind of man who’d betray you.
You’re it for me. My life, my light, my whole goddamn world.
If you asked me to move a mountain, I’d rip it apart with my bare hands.
” His eyes lock on mine, something devastating and raw flickering there.
“I should’ve never given you a reason to doubt it. Never.”
“Chelsea’s the secretary at work,” he blurts, words tumbling fast, like he knows he’s losing me. “I asked her to text me on Monday, during office hours. I needed her to check flights. I was trying to make sure I’d be home in time for Sweeney Todd. For closing night.”
Relief and shame slam into me all at once, my heart lodged somewhere in the middle. Why did I let myself go there? Why did I believe—even for a breath—that he’d cheat?
“Donovan… I am so sorry.” His name stumbles out of me.
“God, I’m so stupid.” The tears come fast, hot, and unstoppable.
“I don’t know why my brain just saw a woman’s name and went there—why it jumped to the worst possible thing.
” My breath hitches, head shaking. “I hate that I thought that about you. I hate that I let it take hold like that.”
When I finally force myself to look at him, his eyes are already glassy, brimming with the same ache tearing me apart.
“You didn’t deserve that. And I’m so, so sorry.” He kisses the tears from my cheeks, soft and deliberate, erasing the hurt we both caused.
I glance at the pastel helmet on the counter. “What’s with the motorcycle gear?”
His smirk is devilish. “Let’s eat first. I want to take you on a ride to this place I found—you’ll love it.” He pulls out the barstool for me, steady hand brushing my waist as I sit. “It’s a long ride. Hopefully you’re up for it.”
We eat in silence, bacon crisp and eggs buttery, the kind of quiet that feels full instead of heavy.
His hand rests on my leg the whole time, warm and grounding, as if he lets go, I might slip away.
When we’re done, Donovan takes my plate to the sink, water running as he rinses it clean.
“Go change into something warm,” he says over his shoulder.
“We’ll head out as soon as you’re ready. ”
I head to my room and pull on my warm black skinny jeans, then a blue long-sleeve Henley.
My favorite black Dr. Martens completes the look.
With my hair braided into two long plaits, I step back into the living room.
Donovan’s eyes roam up my body; his eyes fucking me, sending shivers down my spine.
He helps me into my new jacket and grabs the rest of the gear.
Once we’re downstairs, Donovan swings his leg over the bike like he’s done it a thousand times—smooth, easy, and confident. Without a word, he reaches for my hand, steadying me as I climb on behind him, like he already knew I’d hesitate. His palm lingers on my thigh, grounding me.
He glances back, voice low and sure. “Hold on tight. Lean when I lean. Don’t fight it—just move with me.
If you need me to stop, tap my thigh twice.
I’ll pull over as soon as it’s safe.” I nod, but he’s already facing forward.
I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing in close, and just before the engine growls to life, he adds, “You'll be fine. I’ve got you.”
We ride like this for hours. I have no idea where we’re going, that should’ve terrified me—but it doesn’t.
The anxiety that had its claws in me loosens with every mile, replaced by something I don’t feel often: calm.
Not the kind I fake at campus mixers or wear like perfume around my mother; this is different.
It settles in my bones. Quiet. Steady. Real.
Donovan starts pulling off the highway, and I see a sign that says Entering Devil’s Cove, North Carolina. Okay, well, that’s not creepy at all.
He pulls into a gas station called the Last Stop, fills the tank, and parks. Fingers laced, we walk toward the front entrance—charming, almost storybook cute. Inside, the place is massive, with shelves stacked high and filled with everything you could need—a one-stop shop.
Donovan leads me toward a side door marked Last Stop Tavern. The second we step through, I freeze. This place is fucking beautiful.
A wraparound porch stretches wide, the ocean framed beyond it. My feet finally move, carrying me straight to a hanging swing. I drop into it, swaying gently, the view opening up in front of me—waves crashing against the shore, salt air filling my lungs, sharp and alive.
Donovan sits beside me, our fingers tangling again. His hand is warm and steady, a stark contrast to the chill rolling in from the sea.
An older man with a long, peppered beard, walks by, a warm smile on his face as he looks at Donovan. “Guess you really weren’t gonna be a stranger, now were ya son?” His southern drawl makes me smile. When was Donovan here?
“Hey, Huxley, this place was too perfect. I couldn’t enjoy it when my heart wasn’t with me.” Huxley nods his head with understanding as he walks towards the bar.
“When were you here?” I lean into him as his arm settles around my shoulders.
“After our miscommunication yesterday, I bought a new bike. Took a long therapy ride. Ended up here.” He stands, holding his hand out until I place mine in his.
He pulls me up, and together we drift toward the shoreline.
We don’t speak. We let the waves do the talking, crashing and retreating around our ankles, cold water tugging at the sand beneath our feet.
Salt hangs heavy in the air, stinging my lungs in a way that feels almost cleansing.
At the edge of the water’s pull, he turns to me, eyes soft but unflinching, his voice low like he’s still wrestling the right words out of his chest.
“Stella.”
My name falls like a promise, a whispered prayer, heavy enough to make my lungs ache. “I’ve loved you since high school. Since the first day you rolled your eyes at me in chemistry and made me believe I’d never be good enough. You wrecked me then. You still do.”
He steps closer, the salt air curling between us, his hands warm as they frame my face, fingertips brushing stray hairs off my cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me against the cold rush of the tide.
“You were always the one. Through every mistake, every year, every time I looked for your face in a crowd that wasn’t ours anymore—it was still you. It’s only ever been you.”
Behind him, the ocean stretches out in all directions, sunlit and endless, glowing under the soft gold of late afternoon.
“I used to think the ocean was the biggest thing I’d ever see in my life,” he says quietly. “But then you loved me back. And suddenly the ocean didn’t seem that big anymore.”
I can’t barely breathe. My chest aches, full and fragile all at once.
Then—he’s dropping to one knee in the sand.
No box. No speech practiced in front of a mirror. Just Donovan. Just us.